University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.
THRILLING INCIDENTS.

The party at Mr. Lynch's
was fixed for the third night
from that on which Arthur
had a private interview with
Marian. The day following
this interview was stormy;
so was the next; the rain
poured down in torrents, and
Arthur and Ernest did not stir
from the house. This made
it somewhat unpleasant to
both; for Arthur, in endeavouring
to act the agreeable
host, did it with a certain
coldness and formality, that
told his guest he was no longer
a welcome visitor, and that a
sense of duty and propriety

had taken the place of pleasure.
But this troubled Ernest
less than it would have
done, had he not deliberately
brought it about, and in a measure
prepared himself for it.
He resolved to let matters
take their own course for the
present, however, and should
a rupture result therefrom, he
could in that event take up
his quarters at the inn—for to
quit the place ere he had fully
ingratiated himself with Marian,
was no part of his design.

The third day, the day on
which the party was to come
off in the evening, rose clear
and beautiful; and the crystal
drops that, on leaf, and
blade, and flower, sparkled in
the morning light, were soon
dispelled by the warm rays
of a cloudless sun. At an
early hour Arthur mounted
his favorite riding horse, and
without saying a word to Ernest,
but merely telling his
father he should be absent
most of the day, rode swiftly
away toward the village. As
he crossed the bridge, he observed
that the stream was
very much swollen and turbid,
and that its waters were still
rising fast, occasioned by the
recent rains on the mountains.
The idea struck him, too,
that he had rarely seen the
stream so high, and that if it
continued to rise any considerable
time, it must sweep
away the bridge; but this he
thought it would not do, sim
ply because such an event
had never occurred; and beyond
this he thought nothing
about it.

We shall not follow Arthur
in his day's wanderings—for
wanderings is, perhaps, not an
inappropriate term—since his
object in riding forth was
merely to escape from himself,
by finding a new channel for
his thoughts, and also to have
an excuse for not attending
the party, which he felt would
yield him no pleasure, now
that Marian would be escorted
thither by another.

It was his intention to return
by nine o'clock in the
evening; but having ridden
to the county seat, and got
in company with a few choice
friends, he did not get away
from there till near that hour;
and then the roads were so
washed and gullied, that the
night being dark, his progress
homeward was slow, and he
only reached the lower pass
to the valley, the opposite one
to that heretofore described,
about midnight. This, like
the other, was wild and
gloomy; and as he walked
his horse along the road,
around the base of the hills,
the roar of the angry waters
below sounded portentously
in his ear, and a solemn dread,
as of some awful calamity,
seized upon his soul, and he
felt a strange, undefinable
thrill pervade his frame. Occasionally,
too, a flash of the
turbulent waters showed him

that the stream had over-leaped
the usual bounds even
of a flood; and as the bridge
naturally recurred to his
mind, he felt additional uneasiness,
lest that had gone,
and with it his only chance
of reaching home that
night.

As he rode on through the
valley, half wrapped in a
gloomy reverie, while his eye
scanned closely each object
presented to it, Arthur felt he
would willingly give no trifling
sum to be assured that
all was well. As he drew
near the village, he perceived
lights like torches moving to
and fro in several places; and
apprehensive from his own
feelings, that something terrible
had happened, he buried
his spurs in the flanks of his
high-mettled beast, and dashed
forward on the run. Just
before entering the village, he
perceived a group of three or
four persons carrying a torch,
and moving slowly down the
bank of the stream, apparently
in search of some object.
Riding up to them, Arthur
demanded, in a tone of considerable
uneasiness, what had
happened.

“Ah! sir,” said the one
who carried the torch, as he
threw its ruddy gleams upon
the pale face of Arthur, “we
have terrible news for you,
Mr. Warren.”

“Speak, Mr. Nixon!” gasped
Arthur, “do not keep me in
suspense!”

“Prepare yourself for something
dreadful! Your friend
Mr. Clifford, and Miss Waldegrave,
we fear are drowned!”

“Drowned!” shrieked Arthur,
half springing, half tumbling,
from his horse.

“Yes,” pursued the other,
“we fear it is all over with
them. Oh! it is an awful
event, the like of which was
never known in Walde-Warren.
They were returning
together from the party at Mr.
Lynch's, and just as they
were crossing the bridge, the
flood swept it away, carrying
them with it. We heard Miss
Waldegrave shriek, and Mr.
Clifford cry for help, and then
all became still. Quick, here,
some one assist Mr. Warren!”
he cried, as Arthur sank to
the ground, too weak to support
himself, on hearing this
dreadful news.

“And I parted from her in
anger!” Arthur muttered, inaudibly,
as a couple of the
party assisted him to his feet.
“Oh! that Clifford's place had
been mine! Is there no hope
that she may be saved?” he
cried, wildly. “Oh! tell me
not that she is lost forever!”

“We fear the worst,” answered
Nixon. “But try and
calm yourself, Mr. Warren;
we will do all that can be done.
Perchance they may escape;
but the stream is very high
and turbulent, and, as I said
before, we have little hope. It
is barely possible they may
drift to the shore, and we will

follow the stream down as far
as the most sanguine may
think necessary.”

“Oh! merciful heaven!
how terrible! how terrible!”
groaned Arthur, wringing his
hands. “And to think I
parted from her in anger!” he
repeated to himself. “I will
go with you, Mr. Nixon,” he
continued, addressing the inn-keeper.
“Let us hasten on
as fast as we can, and at the
same time examine closely
as we go. Do her parents
know of this heart-rending
calamity?”

“Probably not; for the
bridge being carried away,
there is now no way of communicating
with persons on the
other side of the river.”

“Oh! what a crushing blow
for them! it will break their
hearts!” said Arthur.

“The whole village will
mourn,” replied Nixon, sadly;
“for poor Marian was beloved
by all, young and old. Alas!
this is a woful day for Walde-Warren.”

Arthur said no more; but he
felt a pressure on his brain, as
if it would burst. He would
have given a world, had it
been his, to have recalled that
last meeting, and parted from
his sweet, gentle, lovely playmate,
as a true friend should
have parted. Alas! he could
not now unsay his cruel words,
and he felt that his life must
henceforth be one of regret
and misery. He had parted
in anger from the only being
he truly loved on earth; and
without the chance of reparation,
without an opportunity
to ask forgiveness, she had
suddenly been snatched from
time to eternity. Oh! pen
cannot portray, even in a
feeble degree, the intense,
overwhelming anguish he suffered.
His brain seemed at
times on fire; and often did he
wish Clifford's fate had been
his—that he had been with
her on the fatal bridge, and, if
death were decreed, that he
had died in a noble effort to
save a life dearer than his
own.

For hours did the citizens
of Walde-Warren search the
banks of the stream for the
bodies of Ernest Clifford and
Marian Waldegrave. Far
down below the western pass
did they go with their torches
—examining every projection,
curve, and drift—in fact, every
inch of ground, for the whole
distance. But they sought in
vain. The muddy, turbulent
waters went hissing, whirling,
roaring, and flashing onward,
but were silent concerning the
awful deed they had performed.
Not a trace of the unfortunate
victims was found, and
it was finally decided that no
more could be done till daylight.
Slowly, sadly, and with
heavy gloom on each countenance,
did the searchers retrace
their steps to the village;
where they were met by a
hundred eager inquiries, from
their wives and daughters,

who had remained behind in
torturing suspense; and many
were the exclamations of horror,
pity, and grief, when the
latter found their worst fears
confirmed by the report.

Arthur, who had returned
with the others, now became
an object of universal attention
and commisseration—as, his
features, pale as marble, and
expressive of the keenest anguish—his
eyes red from
weeping—his head bowed upon
his breast—he walked slowly
past groups of anxious
citizens, who, out of respect
to his heavier sorrows intruded
upon him no empty words
of condolence, but, on the contrary,
hushed all conversation
as he went by.

It was the wish of Arthur,
as expressed to Mr. Nixon,
that some kind of a raft should
be constructed, by which he
could reach the opposite side
of the swollen stream, relieve
his parents of all anxiety concerning
himself, and report
the dire event of the night.
Several persons accordingly
set to work, and by daylight
a rough water-conveyance was
finished and placed upon the
stream. Upon this Arthur and
one other ventured with long
poles; and after one or two
narrow escapes, owing to the
power and velocity of the current,
reached the opposite
shore in safety, about a quarter
of a mile below the point
of embarkation.

Arthur now made the best
of his way home, fearing to
trust himself to communicate
the awful intelligence to the
parents of poor Marian. His
own father and mother were
rejoiced to see him; for although
they knew nothing of
the washing away of the
bridge, they had been concerned
at his long absence;
but when he came to relate
the loss of Marian and Ernest,
they were appalled and overwhelmed
with sorrow, for they
loved Marian as a daughter.

“Oh! woful tidings! woful
tidings! and wo is me, that I
must be the first to break this
dreadful news to Archer!”
said the elder Warren, when
Arthur had finished his heart-rending
tale. “But it must
be done, and delay can ease
no pang;” and with these
words he set off on his soul
trying mission.

We pass over the reception
of the intelligence of the loss
of their beloved daughter, by
the parents of Marian. No
pen, though wielded with the
combined power of all the
great masters that ever had a
being, can portray one tithe
of the anguish which is felt
on similar occasions; and therefore
we leave the reader to
imagine—or, it may be, recall
—their feelings; for doubtless
we are addressing some who
have felt a like visitation of
Providence. Oh! it is hard,
very hard, to lose a near and
dear friend by the hand of
death, and know that his or

her welcome voice will sound
no more in our ear while we
tread the shores of time; but
when we have seen such a
one pass gradually down to
the vale of shadows, heard his
or her parting words, and felt
the last pressure of his or her
hands—how light is our affliction
compared to that of having
one snatched from us in
the bloom of health, without
a moment's warning! In the
latter case the shock is terrible;
and there are many constitutions
that sink under the
blow, or withstand it only with
a final or temporary loss of
reason.

The latter was not the case
with the parents of Marian,
however; they survived the
news of her loss, without the
derangement of their mental
faculties; but over what they
suffered for a few hours we
will draw a veil.

As for Arthur, having repaired
to his own private
chamber, he locked himself
in, and then gave unrestrained
way to his grief. And it was
fearful; fearful. Now he would
throw himself upon the bed,
and roll from side to side, as
if undergoing the agonies of
mortal convulsions; now he
would start up suddenly, and
pace the floor with rapid
strides, wringing his hands,
or swinging them wildly to
and fro; and now he would
sink himself heavily upon a
seat, and, leaning his head
upon his breast, clasp his
temples, ever and anon exclaiming,
with a groan:

“Poor dear Marian! and I
parted from thee in anger!”

How many, whose eyes fall
upon the traces of our pen,
will recall some dear friend
from whom they parted in
anger, or coldness, which parting
death unexpectedly made
a final one.

It is not well to part from a
friend in anger.

The sun was more than half
way to the meridian, when
Mr. Warren rapped at Arthur's
door, and cried:

“Joyful news, my son—
joyful news! Marian and Mr.
Clifford are saved.”

With one bound Arthur
reached the door, and the next
moment stood confronting his
father, pale, haggard, trembling,
and with an expression
of hope and fear blended
on his countenance.

“Did I hear aright?” he
gasped.

“Yes, Arthur—yes—thank
God, they are saved!”

“Thank God, indeed!” returned
Arthur, solemnly; and
sinking down upon his knees,
he offered a silent tribute of
thanksgiving to the Most
High. “Now tell me, father,
the particulars,” he said, as he
rose to his feet.

“Why, I hardly know the
particulars myself, Arthur,”
answered the other; “but it
appears, from what I could
gather from the messenger
sent over to apprise Marian's

parents of her safety, that Mr.
Clifford, with wonderful presence
of mind, on finding the
bridge giving way, clasped
Marian around the waist with
one arm, and the railing with
the other; and so they were
borne down the stream some
three or four miles—she barely
kept from drowning by his
unremitting and almost superhuman
efforts—when, Providentially,
they lodged against
some bushes, and he succeeded
in getting ashore and dragging
her after him, in an unconscious
state; from which, though
nearly exhausted himself, he
finally recovered her, by constant
rubbing and other attentions.
As both were too weak
to walk, they remained on the
bank of the stream through the
night, and were found this
morning, in a rather precarious
condition, by a party of the
villagers who had gone down
to search for their dead bodies.
They were immediately taken
to a farm-house in the vicinity,
proper restoratives applied,
and subsequently conveyed to
the village in a carriage, where
they now are, at the house of
Mr. Lynch. All Walde-Warren
is in a state of rejoicing,
and young and old are loud in
the praise of the noble, heroic
conduct of Ernest Clifford.”

A pang shot through the
heart of Arthur at this recital
—a selfish pang we dare not
deny. He rejoiced that Marian
had been saved from an
awful death; but he could not
avoid the regret that she owed
her life to Clifford. Though
living, he now felt she must
henceforth be dead to him;
for though never so much opposed
to the advances of Clifford—and
he had yet to learn
that she was opposed to them
—how could she conscientiously
resist the impassioned
suit of her preserver? This
idea now became one of torture
to Arthur; and if the
truth must be told, he scarcely
felt more happy than before
he heard what to every one
else was joyful news. His
father saw that he was greatly
agitated—but he attributed it
to a very different cause than
the real one—and merely adding,
that the parents of Marian
had gone back with the messenger
to see her, and thank
her preserver, he retired, leaving
Arthur to himself.

Once more alone, Arthur
threw himself upon the bed,
and fairly wept in bitterness
of spirit. Not naturally of an
envious disposition—not naturally
of a jealous one—he was
now both envious and jealous
of one he had so lately called
his friend, but whom he felt
he could call his friend no
more. Yes, he felt, truly felt,
he had nursed a viper to sting
him to the heart. He had
crawled between Marian and
himself; and though so feeble
at first that an iron heel might
have crushed him, yet now circumstances
had given him
a power that made him more
than his equal in combat.

“Oh! that it had been my

fortune to have saved that life
dearer than my own, even at
the sacrifice of my own!”
groaned Arthur; “but, alas!
it was not so ordered; and
henceforth I must be miserable
in knowing that she lives for
another, and that other unworthy
so rich a prize.”

As we claim to speak the
truth of Arthur, even when it
tells against him, we must not
omit to mention here, that with
all his selfishness—and who
can truly love and not be
selfish?—the keenest pang of
his heart was the reflection,
that Ernest Clifford was totally
unworthy so sweet, so gentle,
so innocent, so pure, so confiding,
so unsuspecting, so angelic
a being as Marian Waldegrave.
Had he been what
Arthur first believed him to
be—a generous, upright, honorable
man—he could have
said—not perhaps without a
pang of regret—but still he
could have said: “You have
saved her life—it belongs to
you—take her and make her
happy.” But he could not say
it now, though his voice, he
fancied, had no longer power
to make or mar.

At length Arthur started up
quickly, with the sudden resolve
that he would see Marian
without delay. In his peculiar
frame of mind, and with
his fiery, passionate energies,
to resolve was to execute. He
hurried from the house toward
the village; and finding
no other means of crossing
the still roaring flood, he
plunged in, regardless of the
danger he incurred, and succeeded
in gaining the other
bank in an exhausted condition.
Resting himself for a
few minutes, and feeling his
strength in some degree restored,
Arthur, all dripping
with water, unmindful of his
appearance, set off for Mr.
Lynch's. He found a group
of some dozen persons in front
of the merchant's dwelling,
discussing the late exciting
events; and just as he came
up, he heard the name of Clifford
mentioned in terms of the
highest encomium.

“Why, Mr. Warren,” said
the same speaker, glancing at
Arthur's dripping garments,
“it seems you have been
taking a bath also.”

“But I have saved nobody's
life,” replied Arthur, almost
bitterly, as he passed on into
the house, which he found
very much crowded, mostly
by ladies, many of whom
were still dressed as at the
party, having remained up all
night, under too much excitement
to think of their personal
appearance.

On inquiring for Marian,
Arthur was informed that she
was now asleep, and that the
physician had given strict orders
not to have her disturbed.

“But your friend, Mr.
Clifford, is in a condition to
see you,” said Mr. Lynch,
coming up to Arthur.

Arthur would have declined
seeing him, only that he
feared such a proceeding
would be too pointed, and elicit
inquiry as to the cause—
for as yet it was not known
that Ernest and himself were
not on the same friendly
terms they had ever been.
So he was shown to Mr. Clifford's
room by Mr. Lynch, who
immediately retired, leaving
the young men to themselves.

Arthur found Clifford enveloped
in a dressing gown of
the host's, sitting on the side
of the bed, from which he had
just risen, and sipping a glass
of port wine negus. Advancing
to him, with a rather embarrassed
air, Arthur held out
his hand; but Ernest was
busy sipping his wine, and
appeared not to see it.

“I have called to congratulate
you on your Providential
escape from a horrible death,”
Arthur said, hardly able to
suppress the indignation
which the cool, deliberate insult
of the other aroused.

“Ah, yes, we had a very
narrow escape of it,” replied
Clifford, with perfect nonchalance,
taking another sip at
the wine glass.

“Perhaps I intrude!” said
Arthur, biting his nether lip
with vexation.

“O, no, not at all,” replied
the other, in a tone of cutting
indifference. “No, my physician
has not forbidden me to
see any one—though I believe
Marian is not so fortu
nate. Poor Marian! only for
her sufferings, it had been a
happy night to me. Do you
not wish me joy, Mr. Warren?”

“No,” said Arthur, “I do
not. I will be frank, and
not let my tongue lie to my
heart. Mr. Clifford, I once
called you my friend—I can
do so no longer.”

“O, as you please,” answered
the other, with perfect
composure—“it is a matter of
no importance to me. I will
send for my luggage—I suppose
you do not intend to keep
that?”

Arthur flushed to the very
roots of his hair, his hands
clenched, his brows contracted,
his eyes flashed,
and for a moment or two
it seemed as if he would
have struck his insulter to
his feet. But he choked down
his choler, so as to speak distinctly,
in a low but tremulous
tone:

“Mr. Clifford, I see it is
your intention to insult me
beyond forgiveness—nay, you
have already done so—but I
do not wish to have any open
quarrel with you, and therefore
I curb my temper and
my passions; but beware you
do not go too far!”

“Thank you, for your timely
caution. By-the-by, if you
will make out my bill, I will
settle it, and change my
quarters.”

“Well, then,” replied Arthur,
“the first item is two

hundred dollars, borrowed
money.”

“Ah! yes—I remember;
have you my note?”

“Your note? no! am I a
paltry usurer?”

“Well, I never pay any
thing but notes?”

“Swindling scoundrels seldom
do!” rejoined Arthur,
with a look of contempt and
scorn.

“Ha! that language to me,
sir?” cried Clifford, beginning
to grow excited for the first
time.

“If the coat fits, wear it!”
said Arthur.

“You are bold, knowing
me an invalid.”

“Were you not one, you
would find me bolder. But I
did not come here to quarrel
—so I will take my leave.”

“Good morning,” rejoined
Ernest carelessly. “I am
sorry I have put you to so
much inconvenience; but the
fact is, you see, we had no idea
the bridge would be carried
away when we attempted to
cross on it; for dear Marian
and I were in such earnest
conversation, we never once
looked at the water till too
late. She was regretting you
should be so much offended,
because she happened to prefer
my company to yours; and
to say the truth, I regretted
you were so unfortunate.”

“That's a lie!” returned
Arthur, setting his teeth hard.

“Sir,” replied Clifford,
slightly coloring, “there is
but one way to atone for that
expression. I trust you will
give me honorable satisfaction.”

“If you have reference to
a duel, I say no,” was the answer;
“duelling is against
my principles.”

“All cowards say the
same,” was the cutting rejoinder.

“I am no coward, Mr.
Clifford, as you may find to
your cost, if you push your
insults too far.”

“Then select your friend,
without more urging.”

“No, I will not.”

“Then you must apologise
for what you have said, and
that too in the presence of
others.”

“So far from that, I throw
it back in your teeth, that you
are false, treacherous, a common
swindler, and no gentleman.”

Ernest sprang from the
bed, with the evident intention
of striking Arthur; but
at this moment the door opened,
and Mr. Lynch entered,
with a couple of young gentlemen,
who had called to see
Clifford. The latter greeted
the new comers with a cordial
smile and shake of the
hand; and Arthur, taking advantage
of the interruption,
went out—Ernest calling after
him, in a very pleasant tone:

“Another time will do,
Arthur!”

Almost beside himself with
rage, Arthur made the best

of his way home; and, returning
again to his own
apartment, threw himself upon
the bed. When, an hour
or two later, his mother entered
his room, she found him
laboring under a vioient attack
of fever, and wildly delirious.